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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183100">dearest, wildest hope</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunavagant/pseuds/lunavagant'>lunavagant</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:14:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>462</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunavagant/pseuds/lunavagant</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers the smell of death and smoke, the rushing in his ears, and underneath it all the discordant, gentle sound of waves lapping at the shore, as out of place as a melody would be, echoing in the Enemy’s Iron Hells.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Trick or Treat Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>dearest, wildest hope</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/gifts">Penknife</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In Alqualondë, Fingon had carved himself a path to him through the fighting.</p><p>Maedhros remembers it with a thrilling, sickening clarity he both dreads and cherishes — even more so now, when so many other memories seem to elude him, shrouded in a thick fog of pain and lingering shadow. </p><p>He remembers the smell of death and smoke, the rushing in his ears, and underneath it all the discordant, gentle sound of waves lapping at the shore, as out of place as a melody would be, echoing in the Enemy’s Iron Hells.   </p><p>And Fingon, standing wide-eyed in the wreckage of their youth, sword in hand and blood-red water splashing under his boots. Fierce and bright and steady in the dancing shadows of the torch-lit night. </p><p>He remembers the dizzying relief at seeing him unharmed, followed by the horrifying realisation of what they had done — of what Fingon, unwavering in his loyalty, had done <i>for</i> them, for Maedhros’s sake.</p><p>For there was no doubt in Maedhros’s mind that upon seeing his banner amid the fighting on the shore Fingon had rushed to his aid without a second thought or question. </p><p>But he had seen questions taking shape in Fingon’s eyes then, as the rush of battle began to ebb and he took in the bloodshed that surrounded them, and they had threatened to shatter what composure Maedhros had been clinging to while leading his men, something foul rising in his throat and a urge to bend over and give in to the rolling sickness in his gut.   </p><p>To leave Fingon behind after that, though not Maedhros’s choice, had been as unspeakable an act as it had been easy — clean, almost; a punishment onto himself before anything else.</p><p>He had borne it, swallowed the longing and the guilt, for to betray Fingon then had still seemed a better alternative to tainting him with more crimes that were not his to shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>In Angband, Maedhros knows no rest, but he does dream.</p><p>He thinks they are dreams, though he has never known dreams like these, dark coiling fogs of the mind that whisper to him in the black tongue of the Enemy of a despair so deep he cannot fully comprehend it.  </p><p>Few, by the grace of their rightful Master, he can still find some trace of himself in. They are no less painful, but it is a sharp, limpid pain that they bring, and he welcomes it, for he knows it as pain that he has wrought for himself. </p><p>In the heart of Thangorodrim, Maedhros dreams of Fingon fighting beside him on that beach, and in the dream he is as strong and as bright as he remembers, and just as beautiful.  </p><p>Maedhros closes his eyes and hums along to the song of the waves.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>'Iron Hell' is a loose translation for both the Sindarin <i>Angband</i> and the Quenya <i>Angamando</i>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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